Saturday, December 27, 2008

I am mid cycle number two since my surgery. The good news is a few of my symptoms seem better. The bad news is that one of those symptoms was the bloated painful ovulation. So now I have no way of knowing if/when I ovulate. I have joined the ranks of the scores of normal women who have no freakin clue when to get freaky. So back I go to the pleasure of temperature charts, mucus and pee sticks. Post op this filled me with dread, but right now, having gone through two physically uneventful ovulation cycles, I am feeling the urge to map out my mysterious new me. Maybe I can even justify getting a new shirt by calling it a "lab coat". Dorky, yes, but I realize I may have to approach this like an adult version of "making potty training fun by having little boys pee on cheerios for target practice". I will keep the discharge checking completely professional. That's the kind of business that should never be mixed with fun.

A large part of why this blog is currently private is because I am aware that I don't always see things the way they really are, and I need to be able to vent my crazy, and then read it later to compare reality to perception. I want to be able to execute this process and not hurt any well meaning people in the process.

Truth: I did go ape$&^!#! crazy over my perception that my sweet mom was not wishing for me what I was wishing for myself (see prior posts). However, in retrospect I am thinking my mothers "disconnect" may have actually been my own disconnect - with reality.

Victory: I recently had a candid phone melt-down with my mom about my desire to adopt older kids, and how I perceived that some people thought I was crazy for this. Boy did she ever rally! I feel so free and liberated now. My mom loves me more than anyone on Earth does, and I forget, or don't tolerate the fact that she probably hurts for me worse and more often than I hurt for myself.

Hubby had a semen analysis recently. His original testing was over three years old, so we were required to be re-tested with our new doc. Three years ago we had a bad morphology issue (AKA funky shaped swimmers.) Unlike sperm count, or volume, morphology isn't really something that can be changed. What little research has been done on indicates that it is genetic. Both RE's I had review Hubby's stats determined that pregnancy was not impossible, just tougher, and given how long we had already been trying, we were officially deemed "unexplained", not "Male Factor".

My new clinic uses the World Health Organization standards for semen analysis, which are different from the criteria used on the old test, (Krueger Strict for morph) so straight comparisons were going to be tough anyway, but here is the verdict: We are now the proud parents of a penetrated hamster egg!

My new RE uses the ultra techno savvy method of checking your swimmers by taking a hamster egg, dumping semen on top of it, and letting nature take its course. Yes, it is disturbing to refer to "nature" regarding the mixing of Human and Hamster, but apparently hamster eggs are very similar to human eggs, and of course there is no X-man way that it is genetically viable for a man to impregate a hamster. However that said, if all crazy were to break lose, and I were to be the proud mother of a Humster, i vow that I would love and care for it, and hide it from the government the way every good mother of a freak should.

I thought this hamster egg thing was the most bizarre thing I had ever heard, and told everyone I ran into about it, so let's cross our fingers my first biological child does not have a big ears or a semi mouse face. Poor kid will never live it down.

The other verdict: Hubby had stellar results across the board. I have to say how disconcerting this is. Was the original test wrong, is this one wrong, or should I be celebrating this mini miracle? During the week long wait between the test and the results, I had gone through a lot of self therapy and had revved myself up for the bad results and the reality that IVF is our next step, so when Hubby told me the good news I congratulated him and burst in to tears. It had been a really hard, transformational week - for nuttin. My psyche just couldn't take it. Thank heavens I don't really have a humster baby to take care of at home. I need some me time.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

It has been about a month since my laparoscopy. I haven't started working out yet, but other than that I am back to normal, and I am even having my first period since the lap. Actually, the not working out means I am REALLY back to normal. Four weeks to normal isn't bad. However two weeks post op I honestly thought I would never walk normally again. I still couldn't walk without having to bend over to catch my breath. Flights of stairs were so hard. I was still in so much pain. I was convinced the surgen had accidentally sewn me together erroneously because when I tried to stand up straight it felt like my right innards were ripping apart. Two weeks out I went for my post op check-up and had a MELT-DOWN. I was still so sad about the endo, I was in so much pain, I had severely underestimated how long it would take to recover, and I had so many questions about what my course of action should be in light of the endo. I came to the appointment armed with a list of questions, and as I was reading them I rapidly descended from quivering lip, to full on ugly cry, to full on mental break-down laying in reclined front seat of car in fetal position. Good thing Lowell insisted on coming. Someone had to drive. I just need to document the bad, because now that I am feeling better I worry I will forget how truly awful this was. I am worried I might sugar coat the lap for some poor girl. Really I think my procedure was not abnormal, I just had completely unrealistic ideas about it. I went to work after 2 days off plus the weekend. STUPID. I strongly recommend taking two weeks off work, and if you don't end up needing that much time - great.

About Me

I am a woman who, despite best intentions, modern medicine, bad advice, and a whole lotta good old fashioned trying, cannot reproduce. I am the genetic mule. These are the stories of my quest for a baby, my denial that I want a baby, and every other thing in between. I have found the best ways to cope with this particular brand of tough stuff is by sharing the sadness and looking for the humor in infertility with fellow mules. Sarcasm, dark humor, occasional bitching, and of course frequent crying all seem to help me. One thing that I have particular trouble with is HOPE. I'll work on it.
But here is something sweet for those of you tough enough to handle some of the H word. I did a google search of "genetic mule" just before I published my first post to make sure no clever person had stolen my name before I got to it, and the only thing that came up was this:
http://www.eyeondna.com/2007/07/31/genetic-impossibility-female-mule-gives-birth-to-foal/
Read it and weep. I did. I guess there is hope even for a mule like me.